100 words
by Meowbowwow
Summary: "You and me, we, have only 100 words to speak today. We cannot exceed our quota. If we do...well, the losing person will have to do something for the other person, chosen by the said other person, of course."


**I really didn't get any time to proofread, please point out if you find anything. :) Hope you like it, xoxo**

The morning sighed and turned in its wake, a salmon shade first and then a white shadow of a five petaled flower, fitful sleep outlining the blithe clouds that skittered on its edge, so like the members of 221B.

Sherlock breathed softly on the edge of the couch, mouth open and face crumpled into John's hair, his arms wrapped around John's torso. The sun played on their shadows and dragged across his cheekbones, bringing the sharp contrast of their bodies into stark relief. While Sherlock was all limbs and white porcelain skin with a face not really beautiful in the conventional sense, John was scarred, ragged and masculine, tanned from his wrists and surprisingly strong muscles underneath those jumpers he so adored.

It was a warm morning, a rare one where the cold didn't seep into your bones and the warmth didn't dampen your forehead; in short, it was a perfect morning for people who had no plans of going out and enjoying it but were rather curled up into each other's arms at 8 am in the morning.

John dreamt of cottage trees and country pines, of evenings lit with the glow of wine and sighed peacefully. Sherlock was awake and was trying very hard to extricate himself from the tangle of arms and legs and not distubing John in the process. His mind, on the other hand, tried to guess what John could be dreaming about and chided itself for not coming up with anything. In his heart, he wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep and cursed his tendency of being a light sleeper.

"Wher' you running off to?" came a growl from a head resting peacefully on his chest, a sleepy mumble more than a question. John adjusted himself and turned at his side to bury his face in Sherlock's neck, planting a small kiss and bribing him to not move. He still wrapped his arms around Sherlock, just in case the move didn't work and giggled to himself when Sherlock tried to wriggle out and failed.

John's viridian gaze twinkled and the corners of his mouth quirked up as he watched Sherlock struggle and give an exagerrated sigh, going limp under his embrace. John knew the ploy, had been subjected to it a lot of times to not notice it and yet, he fell for it, simply to see Sherlock guffaw like a child at having bested John. It also meant that John got thoroughly snogged with affection but that was a different thing altogether.

"_Rare earth elements - Lanthanum, Cerium, Praseodymium, Neodymium, Promethium, Samarium, Europium, Gadolinium, Terbium, Dysprosium..." _Sherlock chanted softly, breaking the trail of kisses, his eyes unfocused and a flushed John under him. John was too used to this side of Sherlock to take offence, it was this thing with Sherlock's brain - while on a case, it was like continuum but when he was off work, he was this bubbling pool of abstract knowledge that dribbled out of him every now and then - and John found it adorable. Gosh! What was wrong with him, he mused to himself before adding with an exasperated sigh, "Holmium.."

The moment it came out of his mouth, they looked at each other and burst into a fit of giggles, Sherlock slid off John and landed on the floor with a thud and it further added to the utter hilarity of the situation that John joined him, clutching at his sides.

"Element holmium is a relatively soft and malleable silvery-white metal. It is too reactive to be found uncombined in nature, but when isolated, is relatively stable in dry air at room temperature." Sherlock chanted, word for word from Wikipedia and looked a little taken aback when John started giggling again. It started off as a small snort and then escalated into a huge giggle fest that was so usual for John, Sherlock merely looked at him, the sight warming him as his eyes crinkled at the sight of the silly little man, no, _his _silly little man, rolling around the floor and laughing.

"What's so funny?" he said, gently running his fingers through John's hair.

John's eyes were still teary when he replied, stifling a laugh, "it's exactly like you, the element. _R__elatively soft, _your lips would beg to agree, _silvery white _and _too reactive to be __found uncombined in nature _is so true, at least in our case. If the element could talk, would it talk as much as you?" John snorted at his own joke, clearly ignoring the dramatic eye-roll Sherlock was offering him._  
_

"I don't talk that much! Heck, you complain that I don't talk for days on end. Now you'r saying that I talk a lot. Maybe Anderson's pathetic company at the crime scenes is finally taking a toll on you" Sherlock said with his petulant air, making a face.

"Oh, shut up. When you do start talking, I mean, when you are in the mood for it, there is no stopping you. Even if I leave the flat, you barely notice my absence and continue your _speeches. _Oh, what would you do if you had only 100 words a day," John finished with a chuckle, making to get up, leaving Sherlock pouting like a petulant child and kissing the top of his head as he made his way out of the room.

When he came back, Sherlock was sitting on the couch, washed and dressed in his robe, a manic gleam in his eyes.  
_This cannot be good_, John thought to himself.

* * *

Sherlock's eyes shone grey with excitement, he rubbed his palms and kept fidgeting a lot, smiling every now and then, waiting for John to come down. _This is going to be fun! _he thought. It was not going to be a boring day, oh no. He was going to make sure of that. John looked as alarmed as he had expected him to when he looked at Sherlock. The man was a mystery, he couldn't sort a footprint from a fingerprint (okay, this was an exaggeration) but he could sift through Sherlock's emotions - from the way he sighed deeply or how he would stare at his skull for hours and not speak. John knew what Sherlock felt, he always knew. If Sherlock could, he would have sat John down and learned the art himself, only, he didn't want to. The look on John's face when he saw Sherlock alarmed at his deductions was priceless. He would never take it away from John.

"I have a game for us, thanks to your offhand remark in the morning. Are you ready?" Sherlock said, the mad gleam never leaving his eyes, slowly seeping in to his fingers that he drummed on his knees in anticipation.

"Erm...okay. So, it'll be put down in the books as my fault then, when they discover our bodies?" John said, smirking a little but still curious.

"Oh, don't be silly, John. It's a simple thing. You and me, we have only 100 words to speak today. We cannot exceed our quota. If we do...well, the losing person will have to do something for the other person, chosen by the said other person, of course."

"That...sounds easy. I don't even have work today. Are you sure this is going to alleviate your boredom because I am going to be much better at this than you." John smiled, eyes twinkling.

He was better at this than Sherlock and Sherlock knew that. But what he also knew was that John was courteous. Very very courteous. And the call from Mycroft that Sherlock had been ignoring since an hour or so was bound to be redirected to John. He waited for the missed calls to reach 8, the exact number when Mycroft would lose his patience and call John instead. Sherlock smiled at himself as he signalled to John the start of their game.

John sat back on his chair, legs spread out in front of him and hands behind his head, giving an impression of thoroughly enjoying a quiet morning. Well that was before his phone started ringing in his pocket, breaking his revelry. He looked at the screen once and realised that it was from Mycroft. He looked up and found Sherlock smirking, wriggling his own phone, flashing the 8 missed calls on his screen in glee.

_THIS IS UNFAIR!_ John was going to scream but he stopped himself. Maybe if he ignored the call, Mycroft would stop calling. Although he knew very well how pointless his ploy was, he let the phone ring its last and die. Nothing happened for a few minutes and John thought that he really had outwitted the devils. To celebrate his small victory, he decided to reward himself with a cup of tea.

The tea was made and John was fishing for biscuits in the cupboard when the bell rang. _Shit, it can't be Mycroft..._he thought to himself before finding Sherlock flopped on the couch, shaking with fits of laughter.

He opened the door, confirming his suspicions and finding Mycroft there, swinging his umbrella and looking rather cross.

"Dr. Watson, ahh, it's nice to find you alive and thriving. And my brother too. One would think that you knew I never called if it wasn't important. Sherlock, I understand but you...it would seem that some unwanted traits of my brother are rubbing off on you too. Anyways..." he looked at the pained expression on John's face and at his brother who was roaring with laughter on the couch and shot a confused look to the flat in general.

"Please come in, Mycroft." John motioned.

_96 left._

Mycroft went on about a case that John really didn't understand much of because Sherlock was not gesticulating wildly behind his brother's back. Mycroft, obviously, understood that something fishy (or fishier than usual) was going on in 221B and sighed deeply, looking severely disappointed with John, much to John's chagrin.

"I am sorry, Mycroft. I am just a bit...preoccupied. Anyways, Sherlock has heard everything of what you are saying and would be _very happy _to take the case," he replied, smirking at the wide eyed look Sherlock was giving to him, cutting his gesturing short. John snorted and Mycroft still looked confused.

_67 left._

John knew that he had chosen a bad day to have this bet with Sherlock when Mrs. Hudson decided to walk in with gorgeous smelling jam tarts. She said something to Sherlock but he merely turned his back on her and she looked at John with the look of that-boy-has-gone-mad and offered them to Mycroft and John instead. Thankfully, Mycroft decided that it was a good time for him to leave and simply waved at John, throwing a smirk in Sherlock's general direction and leaving the papers. The moment he left, Mrs. Hudson asked John to taste the tarts and tell her how good they were.

Sherlock had resumed with his rather irritating quiet giggling as his back shook when John finished the last bit and turned towards Mrs. Hudson to find her looking at him hopefully. He sighed and began talking to her, telling her how they were exactly like her mother used to make and how much he loved them. She looked really pleased with herself when she left and John would have thought that it was worth the words he had spent but for his phone that beeped.

4 left - SH

Oh no, it can't be. There have to be more!

Nopes. - SH

Prove that it's 4!

Prove that it isn't - SH

John made a face, knowing fully well that Sherlock could prove how only 4 words were left but he didn't want to. To take his mind off things, he thought he'd start preparing lunch. Sherlock had gone back to typing away contentedly on the laptop and his pecking created an air of comfort as John worked in the kitchen, the pots and pans clinking in exact harmony to Sherlock's tapping. John almost sighed at how much he enjoyed all this domesticity.

He tapped Sherlock on the shoulder and hovered around him till Sherlock looked up from the screen. He looked at the plate and made a face but John shot him a stern gaze, Sherlock immediately put the laptop aside and began shoving food down his mouth indecently, as if to prove how John had distracted him from something very important. When John glanced at the laptop screen, Sherlock snapped it shut and grimaced at him.

After every bit from the plate was finished, John decided that it was safe to eat, after all. He liked to enjoy and savour every bite he ate and hence, it was some time before he finished and caught Sherlock looking away. John smiled to himself, he still enjoyed the stolen glances and how Sherlock blushed when he was caught staring, though he did an excellent job of hiding it.

While Sherlock still continued typing, John felt a little drowsy from the warm food and the humdrum of silence around the flat. Now that he had most probably lost the bet, he decided that he would read the newspaper in some quiet and prepare himself for the very humiliating defeat. Words swam in front of him: _2 men killed in their house, police baffled._

_John felt lighter than he ever had. It was a weird feeling, he saw 221B from afar, brown and so very London. Then there was Sherlock, a shadow by the window, violin in hand and eyes closed, playing note after note. He kept getting away, 221B was very far now, Sherlock a mere speck. There were gardens and children that played on the swing, their tiny feet stretched out, a shoe here and a cap there. Parents sat on benches, reading a book and glancing up to check on their kids every now and then. In the background was constant tapping, it was like the ticking of a clock but only, it wasn't. It continued and John felt more comfortable._ He turned in his sleep and felt warm lips on his own, he smelled Eucalyptus soap and curly hair grazed his nose a little. John opened his eyes to find the flat turn purple and emerald in the evening colours, washed like a circus show, colours bounced off surfaces.

Sherlock had his arms around him, his eyes warm and deep, grey turning green, blue and purple in the colours of the street. He bent down again to take John's mouth, his tongue darting out just a little to wet the corners of John's mouth before it made its way to tracing the shape of his lips. He gently nibbled on the lower lip and John let himself melt in his embrace. Sherlock was warm and solid, his hands moved inside his jumper, tracing shapes on his back and, John giggled, drawing the chemical structure of Caffeine. He pulled John's shirt out of his trousers and touched his skin, his fingers very gentle but his touch exquisite.

The curious hands and fingers moved over familiar territory, moving over John's scar and revising the pattern they had learnt a long time ago. John still tensed a little when Sherlock touched his scar but eased when his tongue was invited into a soft glorious mouth tasting of coffee, mint and Sherlock. _Oh, Sherlock_, he sighed, whether it was audible or not, he didn't care. All he cared was that capable fingers were now undoing every inch of his body, mapping constellations in thin air and plucking out stars on their own accord. John let Sherlock pull him to the couch, easing his head back and resting his own curly one on John's chest. John ran his fingers through his hair and as expected, the long body on top of him purred gently. They sat there for a long time, for ages before anyone said anything.

Sherlock looked up, propping himself on his elbow. John hadn't seen him so happy in ages or so content. Something off his grey eyes moved and held John's gaze. Sherlock closed his eyes and recited,

"I knew not, love this powerful,

this wonderful, would crawl in

and make home into my skin,

in lumpy jumpers and jam laden toasts,

in overabundance of tea, I knew not,

I would find home,

But for you."

Sherlock looked up, expectantly, his eyes curious like a child's and hands sweaty in anticipation. John looked on with his mouth a little open. Not only had he not used all his words, he had said a million in the ones he said. John let his hands cup that face, he knew he would never love anyone as much as he loved this man. Yes, he drove him crazy and sometimes mad with all his antics but John Watson, in that little moment on the couch, knew that there would never be anyone else.

And hence, he said this, "I love you, Sherlock." Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise and for a second, John stopped breathing but then the gray eyes crinkled at their corners, eyes shining as John pulled him down for a kiss. After snogging Sherlock to his heart's content, John let himself be snuggled in warm and bony arms, amidst whispers of 'I Love you too' recited exactly 14 times and then a 'you are so cuddly, John Watson' as Sherlock smirked, signalling his spent words.

And there was no ending to this magical evening in 221B because even though their lives were punctuated by raised voices, bangs in the kitchen and maniac criminals threatening to skill them, by the end of the day, John Watson always found himself in the embrace of a certain Sherlock Holmes who could speak a million things ina mere hundred words.


End file.
